


What's In A Name?

by lillagah



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:16:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillagah/pseuds/lillagah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from ughbenedict on Tumblr. Could not refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's In A Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't be too mean, this is my first fic. Eep! *hides*
> 
> P.S. I wanted to pay some respect to my top three favorite Sherlock fics, (all Johnlock, sorry. I ship it hard, but I tried not to make this overly Johnlock-y for those who don't) so I inserted one thing that references each. One's pretty obvious, haha.

John smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt. He had forgotten to iron it, but it was too late now. Mary was already waiting somewhere in the flat. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Right, that'd have to do. He walked out of the bathroom in search of his fiancee. On his way through the den, his hand automatically reached out to pass gently over the skull.

"Mary?" he called.

"Kitchen, love!"

He walked in. "Oh no, don't bother with the washing up. It's my mess anyhow. Come on! The reservation's at eight and I know you've been dying to check this place out." He took the towel from her hands. "Really! Come on! It's going to be great! All those reviews can't be wrong."

Mary laughed. "All right, then, Mr. Pushy. I think my handbag is on the sofa. I'll just grab it and then we'll go." She clacked out of the room. John took a second to admire the view. Mary always dressed like the ultimate in classy, but John knew she had another side, the side that liked nothing better than to get a little...bad. John still felt like pinching himself sometimes to make sure he wasn't dreaming their relationship. How in heaven Mary Morstan saw anything in him, he would never understand.

"John...John?" He looked up with a start. Mary was standing in front of him with a concerned look on her face. He noticed for the first time that she had worn her pretty blonde hair the way he liked, sort of half-up, with some wispy bits in the front. He smiled.

"Sorry, love. In my own world there for a minute. Are you ready?"

"Yes," she replied. "Let's be going or else we'll be late."

They clattered down the stairs, talking animatedly about the movie called "To A Stranger" they had seen earlier in the day. They stopped briefly in the hallway.

"We're off, Mrs. Hudson," John called.

His landlady poked her head around her door, her face wreathed in one of her maternal smiles. "Well, don't the two of you look lovely! Mary, what a pretty shade of blue for you. Brings your eyes right out. And John, dapper as ever, my dear!" she said. "Have a nice time together!"

"We will!" they chorused.

"Do you need anything while we're out?" Mary asked.

"Oh no, my dear. But thank you! Now, go enjoy yourselves. Go on!" Mrs. Hudson said, laughingly flapping her hand at them.

A brisk walk of two blocks on a mild October night was all they needed to bring them to Sandro's, the Italian restaurant that had opened about a month before to rave reviews. John held the door for Mary, who walked ahead to give their reservation to the hostess. He caught up to her right as the hostess was saying, "Right this way, ma'am."

They were seated at a cozy little table, complete with flowers and candles. The hostess handed them their menus and told them the server would be there momentarily. John watched Mary. She was looking around with a happy expression. He'd been saving up a few paychecks from St. Bart's so he could take her somewhere nice, just because. And most of the clientele looked like classy folk, with the notable exception of the man to his left. What a character! The bright pink dinner jacket, the perfectly coiffed hair, the golden pinkie ring, the...the sequined shoes. John blinked. God, what will Sherlock make of this guy when I tel-

Shit.

He stared numbly into his water glass. I fucking hate when I do this, he thought miserably. Not going to think of it. Not. Going. To. Think. Of. It. Need a distraction. Noises intruded. Oh. Oh, they aren't. Oh, Christ.

"Are they really playing opera in here?" he asked.

Mary nearly inhaled her bite of focaccia. She grabbed her water and took several sips. She bent over the table, shoulders shaking slightly.

"Mary??" he said, half-rising from his seat in alarm.

"Jesus Christ on a bicycle, John!" She carefully wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "It's a classy Italian restaurant! Of course they play opera, you snob! What do you have against 'La Donna e' Mobile,' anyhow?"

"What any person with ears would have against it, I should think," John whispered.

Mary started to laugh, but suddenly snorted aloud. Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with shock above it. The man at the next table looked away with disdain. It was John's turn to bend over the table and do battle with silent laughter.

"Oh, God," he groaned when he could breathe again. "I think the guy at the next table just scoffed so hard he strained a muscle."

A waiter materialized at his elbow. "Are you ready to order, sir?" he asked pointedly.

"Ah, no. Just a moment more, please," John said, steadfastly not looking at Mary. If he did, he was sure he'd burst into more unseemly laughter.

"Very well, sir. I shall return momentarily," the waiter said haughtily, and whisked himself off. John gaze dropped to his nametag as he turned. It said "Lancelot" in curly lettering. Of course it did.

"Well, we mustn't disappoint Lancelot and be unprepared a second time, hm?" Mary said, casually perusing the menu.

"You saw that too?" John hissed across the table. "What is wrong with people these days? All these weird names. Let's hope he's not a twin. I don't even want to know what other names any siblings of his might be saddled with." He picked up his menu. Hm. Fettuccine alfredo.

"Well, Sherlock had an unusual name," Mary said carefully.

"Talking about me?" a sardonic voice intruded.

John and Mary froze, then looked up. Both of their mouths fell open at the same time.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. You look like a couple of fish," Sherlock said. He leaned casually against the pink man's table, ignoring all throat clearings and gesticulations from that gentleman.

Mary found her voice first. "Sherlock? But what--? I thought..." Then she really looked him. She saw the eyes, red-rimmed and uncertain, despite his cocky tone. His arms, folded defensively over his chest. His shoulders, angled toward John. She could see a few fingers peeking out from under an arm, and they kept clenching nervously into a fist.

She stood up. "I'll just step outside for a moment," she said brightly to no one in particular.

John did not even look at her as she walked away. He had gone a particularly sickly shade of white, and had so far been completely unable to look away from his dead best friend. For a wild moment, he wondered if zombies were actually real. But then Sherlock finally stopped inconveniencing the pink man and made himself comfortable in Mary's seat. He stared at John, and for a second John thought he was going to reach out for his hand. But Sherlock leaned his slim frame back in the chair, steepled his fingers against his chin and said, "So. What are you going to order? Fettuccine again?

John clenched his teeth together. Hard. He leaned in across the table and hissed, "You absolute. Fucking. Prick. What the fuck is going on? Am I hallucinating?" He was breathing heavily. His face was red. He could hardly stand it. Sherlock was dead. DEAD. Somehow dead with the ability to waltz into a restaurant, interrupt a date with his fiancee, and ask about food. What. The. Fuck.

Sherlock looked somewhat less confident. He lowered his hands to the table and leaned in to meet John.

"Listen, John. I want to say that I am sorry. I know this is very complicated for you, but if you would just let me expla--"

"Very complicated?! You think, Sherlock? My best friend in the whole wide world leaps off the top of the hospital, is pronounced dead, is buried. I went to your fucking funeral! I had to stand by Mycroft! And then I just sat there for months and thought of all the ways I failed, all the ways I could have done something different. Did you know that the flat is so goddamn empty without a fucking scherzo being played at four in the morning? Because it is. Did you know I had to deal with Lestrade calling me every week to invite me to go have a pint with his mates? Because I did. And I had to deal with everyone's pity faces at work, and Mrs. Hudson crying her eyes out at home. And Harry's still drinking. And you left a head in the fridge and a severed finger in the butter dish. THE BUTTER DISH. What the goddamn fuck is wrong with you?! You know what? No. No, I am not doing this. I need to find my fiancee." John shoved back his chair and stood.

"John--"

"No! No, Sherlock. You don't get to do that. You cannot fake your death and exclude me from knowledge of it, vanish for three years, and then show up at my dinner with Mary, expecting everything to be fine. Because it isn't. Fine. It isn't fine. It's every shade of wrong in the book." He grabbed his coat and walked out of the restaurant.

Sherlock sat quietly for a moment, watching him go. John was taking extra big strides. His hands were in fists. He flung the door open when he exited. Not good. He stood up from the table, threw a few quid at the fluttering waiter to shut him up, and stalked out after John. He ignored the interested gazes of the other diners. He was focused wholly on John. He just had to give him a chance! Somewhere in there underneath the fury was John's humanity, and Sherlock knew he could get to it. And there wasn't any time to waste. He'd done enough of that already.

He found John and Mary in a quiet alley about a block away. John was gripping Mary's arms and feverishly saying, "I don't understand. I don't. What is going on??" Mary tried to soothe him, but he was hardly listening.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John," he said quietly.

Suddenly all John's anger seemed to coalesce into some emotion. Sherlock could see him set his jaw. He turned toward Sherlock, closed the distance between them. Sherlock watched his approach cautiously. John stopped in from of him, visibly tortured with hurt and disbelief and shock. Sherlock looked him in the eye, and for a moment he felt afraid. His friend was not there. Savage anger was the only thing seething within. They locked eyes for what felt like an eternity. Finally, John began to nod. He didn't say a word, but took a step back from Sherlock, who took that as a sign to start talking. He opened his mouth to begin.

A fist exploded against his face. His head snapped back. He heard Mary running toward them, crying for John to stop. He slowly wound his gaze back to John, who was staring at him with a stricken expression.

"Oh fuck," John thought. "God, no. He's all bloody, just like...just like...oh, God."

Mary came up next to John, and reached for him. Instantly, Sherlock stopped her hand in its orbit. He lowered it to her side. Then he took John into his own arms. John was crying, he realized abruptly. And he was fighting being hugged, hard. He was standing stiff and as tall as he could make himself. But he felt Sherlock's right hand sweep across his back to hold his left shoulder, the other hand pulling him tight against his waist. And all at once, the battle within him was gone. He flung his arms around Sherlock and buried his face him the curve of his neck. And he cried. He kept grabbing handfuls of Sherlock's coat, that damn swishy one of his with the collar, and pulling him closer. He could never be close enough.

Sherlock sniffed, and dropped his head down to the side of John's neck. The hand on John's shoulder slid up to entangle itself in his hair. Suddenly, he was crying too. John. John in his arms, John in his life. He remembered the slideshow of horror that was living without this man. The loneliness. The social awkwardness. The misunderstandings. The cruelty of other people that John had somehow become his shield against. He silently promised himself that he and John would always be together, in some way. He could never survive without him again. He was jerked back to the present by John mightily gripping his collar and pressing his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Don't. You. EVER. Leave me like that again," John said fiercely.

"I wasn't planning on it," Sherlock whispered.

A third forehead pressed to their cheeks. A hand slid around each of their waists. "I love you both so much," Mary said. They turned to her and smiled. "Oh, good Lord. We've got to get you both cleaned up. You both have blood all over. This is going to be an awkward walk back to Baker Street." She kept an arm around each of their waists and began herding them in the right direction.

"I could not care less," Sherlock said offhandedly. There was a warm glow in the pit of his stomach.

"Oi, Sherlock. Did you see that guy in pink in the restaurant? I want him deduced immediately," John said.He was practically giddy with the realization that he could actually talk to Sherlock again. Mary was smiling widely at the pair of them.

"Of course I saw him. I think it would be next to impossible to miss him. That is Azzedine Blake, one of the greatest actors in West End at the moment. He's a great sodding bore, has an absolutely appalling wife at home but has three, maybe four lovers, repairs Swiss clocks in his spare time, and has excellent taste in shoes," Sherlock said calmly. "Also, John. About this mustache. Surely you intend to shave before the wedding?"

"Azzedine?" John said. "Really? Really."


End file.
